


Thranduil's Granddaughter

by PazithiGallifreya



Series: Fortune [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Family, Female Gimli, Gen, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PazithiGallifreya/pseuds/PazithiGallifreya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil loves his granddaughter, even if he does not always quite understand; indeed, even if he does not always quite *want* to understand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thranduil's Granddaughter

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for brief mention of self-harm.

He was well aware of the irony of it, of the contradiction.

If asked, he would have stated firmly that he had cast aside his son’s debts entirely, forgiven and forgotten, but the pain and anger were still there slinking about beneath the surface. He didn’t mean to hold on to it, but it would seem that some wounds left scars that can be felt, even when they can no longer be seen. They mostly got around it by simply not discussing certain subjects. He did _try_ not to let it come up to the surface. He succeeded most of the time. Well, _some_ of the time.

He had even come to almost tolerate his son’s wife and her kin. He supposed they weren’t _quite_ as horrible as most dwarves.

When his wrath had finally abated enough to face his son, he’d sent the summons to Erebor, unsure if he would even receive a reply, much less one in the positive, given the nature of their last parting.

Thus the day arrived when the small family finally showed up on his doorstep mid-afternoon on an overcast September day with his five-year old granddaughter carried in his son’s arms.

He fell in love with _her_ at once - her round red cheeks and gap-toothed smile, the long points of her oversized ears sticking out from a riot of red-blonde curls. Never had such a child stood in his halls; nay, in the wide world itself, and she belong to _him._ (Soon enough, it was quite the other way around, but that suited him just fine).

 

ooooo

 

Their family home remained in Erebor, but Cíweth began to complain before too long if they did not make a visit to her Daeradar in the Greenwood. Despite Gimli's reservations, it became customary for the family to spend a month or so in Thranduil’s home at least once or twice a year.

Gimli did not always accompany her husband & daughter, though. She would sometimes stay behind to keep up with her work, and did not think her father-in-law (a term that still made her wince considering the one it now referred to) would miss her presence.

There was still much planning and gathering of supplies and scrutiny of volunteers and potential settlers to be done before they left for the Glittering Caves in the spring now. She had smiths, merchants, jewelers and craftsmen pledged to her and was in negotiation with several families in Dale to set up trade routes for livestock and crops to keep her dwarves fed in their new home. Some things would have to be worked out closer to the new colony, with the men of Rohan. Her friendship with Eowyn and Eomer would certainly smooth the path. Her life’s work was nearing fruition at last.

Gimli had seen off her husband and daughter a week ago, fussing over Cíweth’s packing as usual, not wanting her daughter to be missing any essentials before heading out. Gimli still did not trust the elves to properly provide for her daughter, especially now as she was growing into a fine young dwarrowdam (not _elleth_ blast it!) and had more considerations than when she had been a young child. They would be nearing Thranduil’s gates soon enough. At least Cíweth’s ada was there to keep an eye on her and hopefully out of too much trouble, at least when Legolas was not causing it himself.

 

ooooo

 

Thranduil stood on a balcony overlooking the archery range, watching his granddaughter working with one of his archers. She had overshot a small target half-hidden in the trees thrice now and her tutor’s impatience was beginning to show. He’d have to talk with Rusgon later about his manners.

He’d sent Legolas out with a small pack of scouts on a routine patrol of his lands and borders as he often did during their visits, not wanting his son to fall too out of practice and too far into the dwarvish habits and mannerisms he had lamentably absorbed from his years among the _naugrim_ in Erebor. He swore he’d heard some phrase of Khuzdul issue from the mouth of his child during their last visit, but his ears _must_ have been deceiving him (or so he prayed). He’d taken to pestering Legolas lately, trying to convince him to move back to his true home. Yet every time he broached the subject, he was politely thanked for his offer and refused, despite the clear superiority of his home in the Greenwood over that rock they called a home. Clearly his wife's influence, as there was no reason for such utter irrationality.

And now, apparently, they’d all be packing up and moving to some new hole soon. Thranduil didn’t care how much these caves in some backwater of Rohan supposedly glittered, though, they weren’t a proper home for a growing young elleth (not _dwarrowdam_ blast it!).

Cíweth hit the target perfectly this time, despite his guard’s perennial skepticism about her potential as an archer. She’d been slow to pick up the skill, despite her greater dexterity with blades, but with a bit of patience and repetition, she was doing well enough. For much of her childhood, she had been only a bit shorter than an elf of the same developmental age, but her growth had slowed considerably as she entered adolescence; apparently her dwarvish blood was not content to be suppressed entirely.

She was still a full foot shorter than any of his subjects and had been practicing with a child’s bow until quite recently, having only just outgrown it. With nothing fitting in his armories, he’d had a new bow fashioned for her after her last visit, made to fit her broader hands and shorter fingers, with a more appropriate draw length and a few other changes to accommodate her small stature without sacrificing too much power and accuracy.

He’d taken the time to sit down with his most skilled bowyer and oversee every aspect of the design, right down to the decorative accents of the matching quiver and arrows. The pure joy in her face when he’d gifted it to her upon her and Legolas’ arrival the day before had been worth all the trouble and expense.

Other evidence of her mixed ancestry had recently made itself known as well, but Thranduil tried not to dwell on it. They’d all assumed she’d have no beard, thankfully, as most dwarf children had some evidence of future growth within the first few years of life. In the last twelve months Cíweth’s had, nonetheless, finally appeared. By dwarf standards, calling the soft, thin curls that now traced down from her ears to border her cheeks and jawline, ending in a little pointed tuft at her chin, an actual _beard_ , was a bit of a stretch, but there it was.

He’d mostly managed to hide his shock the day before. She had just smiled brightly and made light of it, giving it a tug and turning her head one side to the other as though showing it off. Whatever she looked like, she was still his princess, and he was still her Daeradar, the Valar themselves could not change that.

 

ooooo

 

“Your archery is progressing well, my princess.”

Cíweth only smiled at him in return, taking another bite and chewing her dinner thoughtfully. She sat at her grandfather’s left hand, her father on his other side, and a few of his subjects were seated around the rest of the table while others served them. It had been fortnight since they arrived and she was becoming accustomed to her new bow and hitting her practice targets fairly consistently, had even begun practicing shooting from horseback for the first time.

Meanwhile her father mostly busied himself with old friends and her grandfather’s ample wine cellars, dropping in from time to time to watch her shooting and offer his own tutelage.

“Is there something amiss?”

“No, Daeradar. I’m only a bit tired.”

Thranduil did not press further. He knew she required nearly as much rest as her mother’s people, sleeping most nights for several hours with her eyes closed against the world. When she had first visited him, it had been an unsettling sight, but it no longer seemed foreign to him those times when he opened her door to glance in and check on her in the middle of the night.

Still, her mood seemed unusually subdued lately, and despite sometimes finding himself impatient with her, Thranduil missed the stream of chatter that usually accompanied their meals together.

“How are your studies coming along?”

“Ummm, Cousin Dwalin’s been teaching me to do horse shoes at his forge an’ he says if I do well I might get to start blades in the spring. An’ amad says she’ll begin Khuzdul lessons properly at the beginning of the new year.”

Thranduil was glad she was looking at her plate and not his current expression. _Why must they make her into such a DWARF_? he thought. He was glad his son had possessed the forethought to at least ensure she spoke Sindarin fluently. He didn’t know if his heart could take it if she only ever spoke the tongues of men and dwarves. His son glanced at him from his other side but his expression was inscrutable.

Thranduil gave her an appraising look; she was obviously keeping something to herself. He hated to see her unhappy, for any reason.

“And all your little friends?”

Cíweth shrugged and looked down, taking another bite of her dinner, unwilling, apparently, to elaborate.

Thranduil and Legolas had spoken about this issue in the past, at some length, to the point of descending into argument on more than one occasion. It was one more reason Thranduil wished for Legolas to move his family away from Erebor and return to him.

Cíweth had some difficulty with her peers at Erebor. The other children had known well enough that she was _different_ even when they were all little more than babies, and the problem only seemed to grow worse as they grew. It didn't help that many years typically passed between children among dwarves, often over a decade, and so she had only a handful of similarly-aged playmates to choose from.

Thranduil had sometimes found himself almost wishing that elflings had been born more recently than half a millennium ago in the Greenwood, regardless of all the noise and mess and trouble they brought, just for Cíweth to have some _proper_ playmates in her _proper_ home.

Unlike those in Imladris and Lothlorien, his people had not started a mass exodus into the West, only a few left now and then, but the pace of life had slowed considerably in recent centuries. His people did not seem inclined to start new families lately and only now that he had a granddaughter did he feel a loss and an emptiness in it.

Cíweth finally swallowed what she’d been slowly and quite thoroughly chewing and decided to reply.

“Same as always. Well… I had to give Kazi a bloody nose last month since he wouldn’t stop making fun of my ears, but he doesn’t bother me anymore.”

Thranduil didn’t know who this “Kazi” was, but he filed the name away; if the dwarfling ever showed up on the road through his Greenwood, he’d find himself in one of the dungeons so fast his beard would spin.

 

ooooo

 

“We've been over this a thousand times, I will not uproot my family from our home, my daughter from the only home she has known, just because you want--”

“You are not blind, I know you can see she is not happy, Legolas! Then why can you not see reason? She belongs with her own people, she belongs here--”

“She is as much a dwarf as an elf if you have not forgotten--”

“Of course I have not forgotten! She is learning their ways and you have been negligent in teaching her ours, you never should have taken her there to live surrounded by all those bloody little--”

“It was YOU who instructed me to take her to Erebor in the first place, do you not recall your words to me that day?”

His son turned on his heel and was gone from the room, the slamming of the door echoing loudly in Thranduil's ears.

 

ooooo

 

Thranduil found Cíweth sitting in his personal study the following afternoon, her nose buried in an old book on the diseases of ash trees and their various cures. It seemed to him an odd choice of reading material for such a young one.

On closer examination, she seemed hardly to be reading anyway, her eyes resting on the same spot of the same page for several minutes.

“Princess?”

She nearly jumped out of her seat, having failed to notice his presence. She glanced up from the book.

“I thought you’d still be at practice with your new bow.”

She sank in her seat, pulling the book back up as though to shield herself from something.

“Rusgon’s in a foul mood, I didn’t want to bother him further.”

Thranduil lifted one sculpted eyebrow. If his head archer was getting an attitude with his granddaughter again…

“Shall I speak to him? I don’t want you falling behind. It’s bad enough you don’t practice properly when you’re holed up in that drafty old mountain.”

Normally she would tease him in return when he made such comments about Erebor, but today she just sighed at him and dropped the book into her lap.

“No… no, I needed a break anyway.”

Thranduil wasn’t quite convinced by her excuse. Cíweth was fast approaching that troublesome age when children become secretive and difficult. Despite the long years, he still remembered Legolas at the same age; he’d certainly been no better, in fact he’d been a right pain in the—

Well, his sweet Cíweth was unlikely to steal his horses in a fit of pique and run off for months with a pack of unruly friends, anyway.

He watched his granddaughter for a moment longer, then turned to leave.

 

ooooo

 

The next morning as he walked past her room, he noticed the door cracked open slightly, a sliver of morning sunlight spilling into the hallway along with an occasional soft sniffling sound. He considered checking on her, but hesitated at first. An unlocked door is not necessarily an invitation and she was no longer a mere child, however much she would always be to him that little round-faced imp he'd fallen in love with.

He was nearly to the end of the hall when he heard a sharp cry, and turned back.

“Princess?”

She didn’t reply, but he pushed the door open anyhow. She was seated in front of her vanity, hunched over in front of the large mirror with one hand pressed to the side of her face and the other obscured from his view by her body.

As he walked quietly toward her, he saw a spot of red on her neck.

“Princess… what on Arda?”

He rushed across the room to her side and saw immediately what she had done. The small knife she typically kept strapped to the ankle of her boot was held loosely in the hand that rested on the vanity. The knife was a tool, not a weapon, but it had a keenly sharp blade. It had been a birthday gift to her from her maternal grandfather Gloin several years ago, and being the work of a dwarven master blacksmith, it had never lost its edge despite much use and abuse.

Soft curls from her cheek now lay scattered over the vanity and her lap and in their place was a deep cut where her hand had slipped badly.

Thranduil knelt beside his granddaughter, pulling a silk handkerchief from a pocket hidden in his robes. He gently mopped at the tears and blood marring her face before pressing it hard against the cut.

“What have you done, dear Cíweth?”

She began to sob in earnest, fat tears streaming from her eyes; for all her lately grown-up appearance, he was sharply reminded that she was still very young. He held the rich cloth, now ruined, firmly against the wound with one hand and steadied her head with the other.

“They all hate me, Daeradar!”

“Shhh, Princess. Nobody hates you.” _Nobody that will live to see tomorrow, if I have anything to do about it._

“Everyone says I don’t have a proper beard an’ I’m too tall an’ have funny ears an’ tha’ I’m not a proper dwarf an’—“

Thranduil lifted the cloth slightly to check the wound; it was still bleeding freely. It would need a stitch or two to close it and he prayed it would not scar too badly, though her beard would hopefully hide the worst of it once it grew back. He took the small knife from Cíweth’s hand and placed it on the vanity, prompting her to hold the cloth instead.

“Press down and hold it so I can lift you.”

She didn’t actually need to be carried of course, but he didn’t really care at the moment. He’d have to talk to his son about the company he kept, and if he had to march upon Erebor with his whole army, he’d not let another blasted dwarf say another ill word to his Cíweth.

Cíweth sniffled rather unelegantly but held the cloth as she was told. Thranduil pulled her chair back and lifted her as he done so often when she had been much smaller. He was still surprised every time he picked her up; she was much heavier than an elfling of the same height, but he’d gladly carry her to the end of Arda and across the Western Sea on foot if necessary.

Her sobbing had finally abated, although a few tears continued. She turned in his arms, hiding the uninjured half of her face against his robes.

“An’ yesterday Master Rusgon said I look like a little goat.”

Thranduil nearly dropped his granddaughter.

“Oh, did he? That’s amusing, coming from an old jackass.”

Legolas would not appreciate such language being used in front of his daughter, but Thranduil was disinclined to care at this point. He’d need to dig his son out of his wine cellars soon; another discussion about Cíweth’s difficulties was clearly in order.

As for Rusgon, if he did not go to his knees and plead forgiveness for his loose tongue, he would not be living in the Greenwood much longer. Even if he did beg, he’d probably be mucking out the stables for the next century. In fact, if he knew what were good for him, he’d be arranging a place on the next ship to Valinor…

Thranduil grabbed the first elf he ran into on his way to find a healer, and sent him off to go find Legolas.

 

ooooo

 

Cíweth had been tended to and was now sitting curled up in his lap in a window seat in his study. She was really too old now to be held like this anymore, but neither of them commented upon it.

Legolas had turned up in a panic just as the healer had begun patching up Cíweth’s cut, wanting to know what had happened, and it broke Thranduil’s heart all over again to see his granddaughter’s sorrow reflected again in his son’s panic. _Perhaps now he will understand some small measure of the pain he has given me_ , he thought with a guilty satisfaction.

His son was now seated across from them, reading from a book but glancing up at the pair in the window every few minutes, clearly unable to concentrate on the text.

It certainly pained them both to look at the wound on her face and, if Thranduil were honest with himself, even the missing patch of soft beard. It was part of her now, and belonged there, whatever certain idiot archers or foolish dwarflings thought of it.

Thranduil undid the braids in her long curly hair, letting it fall loosely about her face; it would obscure the cut from the side, at least. He should have brought a comb, he thought, but obtaining one would require him to shift her and get up so instead he just sat and slowly untangled her curls with his long fingers, carding them through her thick hair. She really did have quite a lot of it – soft and silky in texture like an elf’s, but with the volume of a dwarf’s mane. He was almost jealous.

 

ooooo

 

Legolas and his daughter left a week later, much sooner than they’d originally planned. Cíweth wanted her mother, and that was that. Thranduil stood on his balcony as his son rode out upon the Eastern road with Cíweth seated behind him, much as she had once done as an infant in her mother's arms. The afternoon sun caught the curve of her new bow and quiver on her back. He'd extracted a promise from Legolas, at least, that she would be regularly instructed in its proper use.

“ _She wants to go home, Adar.”_

 _This is her home_ , was all he could think, _and perhaps I am selfish_. But however much he wished it, and whatever her difficulties were, she longed only to return to Erebor. Would she, indeed, be happier in the Greenwood, or would it simply make _him_ happier to have her to himself?

He wondered if Legolas understood. His son was never so jealous of whatever he considered his own; his heart was honest like his mother's. Perhaps she would have known better how to handle this family. She would have loved Cíweth.

As his heirs disappeared over the horizon, Thranduil decided a surprise visit to Erebor might be in order quite soon. He had not visited the mountain since those tumultuous days after the return and then the death of Thorin Oakenshield, but he remembered its halls well enough.

And perhaps a few well-worded threats in the ears of certain nasty little dwarf children would not be amiss...

 


End file.
